


Somewhat Thick

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3416711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern-day TurkPort. Sun, sex, coffee (tar) and annoying each other: some things never change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhat Thick

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of old fic from my tumblr. Originally a birthday gift for the wonderful Hoofkin.

Portugal is not accustomed to being ignored. Noted and carefully passed over, yes, on occasion, but not outright _ignored,_ utterly forgotten in favour of an argument with somebody else. There _are,_ he thinks, a great deal of _other_ things he could be doing to waste his time other than sitting with a quickly-cooling cup of Turkish coffee in a golden spill of Mediterranean sunshine, half-listening to the Nation who had originally offered him the drink bickering fiercely with Greece on the opposite side of the café – but it seems like such an _effort,_ on such a lovely day when the sky is a blue brighter than the glittering not-too-distant sea, to just get up and walk out when he’d travelled such a way to get there. Besides _,_ just because _Turkey_ is (once more) proving himself a large (noisy) waste of time and space does not mean that _all_ the Nations around him are afflicted with the same condition – _or_ their collective people, Portugal unconsciously drawing more mortal eyes to him with the bright gold hoops in his ear, the steady (and increasingly) passive-aggressive _click-clack_ in his hand of the coral kombolói Cyprus had once given to him as a gently-pointed gift.

By the time Turkey has finished his squabbling about local politics/the politically-correct name for regional caffeine with Greece (an at least once-weekly ritual, aided by their apparent inbuilt radars for trouble and/or each other) and stomps back to the table, Greece departing still-irritated out the door, Portugal has acquired a calico cat twining around one ankle, three pretty girls sitting next to him, and a rather lovely boy almost nudging his knee and thoughtfully re-evaluating his sexual identity in the face of Portugal’s slow-curling smile. Portugal makes a point of getting the boy’s number before Turkey’s dour glare scatters the reluctant group to the four winds, leaning lazily back in his seat to regard the glower being levelled down at him.

“Adnan bey.” The chair is good for laconic stretching, its back firm under Portugal’s bare forearm, his sleeve rolled up to his elbow for the temperature rising with the year. Portugal dislikes being kept waiting, especially for _this_ man, slipping his beads back over his wrist and letting his words slide out in a drawl to match the sunshine’s slow heat.

Undrunk, his coffee is cold, dark and thick and looking like a cupful of tar.

“How kind of you to finally join me.”

“Can it, Jibrail.” Turkey’s jaw is as firm as ever, but, without his mask, he looks somewhat tired – but then, don’t they _all_ lately?

Portugal’s own eyes wear shadows beneath them a lot more often than he’d like, his head full of dipping numbers and old songs that even the crashing of the waves on his beaches won’t ease away – and his, “And here I thought you _liked_ all the things my tongue can do,” is half-hearted at best.

It’s a point to their shared weariness that Turkey doesn’t run with it regardless; instead, he jerks his head down at Portugal’s cold coffee, the forlorn cup on the almost-as-forlorn café table. “Want one of those actually worth drinking?”

Progress is progress – Portugal raises an eyebrow, but nods.

They go to Turkey’s home and spread the work they’re _supposed_ to be doing together that day out on the main room’s table, white sheets of paper, smooth brown wood, two gazes meeting over it and silently agreeing upon the universal _fuck this._ The kitchen’s refuge calls to them instead, the coffee Turkey promised served thick and bitter and burning hot, gritty with sugar and grounds.

Hip against the counter and cup hot between his hands, Portugal passes his usual acid comment that it feels like the drink is taking off the inner lining of his stomach (this coffee can dissolve metal, he swears). His common complaining is cut short by Turkey’s sudden hand at his waist, mouth hard against his own – when the idiotic _mouro_ pulls back he’s grinning like he’s won some sort of great personal victory, white teeth and smug, “Everything seems fine to me.”

Portugal’s eyebrow – once more – inches for his hairline, and his voice goes flat. “Turquia, if you truly cannot tell the difference between my _mouth_ and my _stomach_ it isn’t any wonder you got beaten so often – did you ever stab someone through the arm thinking that was what the rest of us called the chest?”

“Yer a dead man whether ye’re stabbed here,” straddling irritation, Turkey crowds hot and close, Portugal’s spine shoved sharp against the counter with the other’s hand splayed heavy across his belly. The muscles there tense, “or _here,_ ” another rough hand wraps itself high and choking around Portugal’s throat, thumb pressed lower, hard and knowing to the involuntary swallow given that makes Portugal’s Adam’s apple bob. “Right, Portekiz?”

Portugal shutters his gaze to Turkey’s arrogance, narrowing his eyes when those taunting fingers squeeze a little more firmly around his throat. His pulse doesn’t pick up, not at all, and his tone stays frigidly cool. “Tolo, get your hand off of my neck.”

Politely (he is a _guest_ ), he does not say _now._

Turkey’s grin makes an unwanted reappearance, and he leans – looms – in close, closer, pushing the advantage of his height to push Portugal even further back, Portugal beginning to unwillingly bend back over the countertop with the weight against him, held at his chest and throat. “And if I don’t want to?”

Portugal ‘accidentally’ spills the last of his still-hot coffee on Turkey’s crotch.

 

 

 

 

They fuck roughly in Turkey’s bed in the middle of the afternoon with Portugal’s hand smothering Turkey’s face into the nearest pillow after a smirking comment about relapsing Catholics. The window is open, admitting a breeze to make the thin curtains flutter, dry the sweat clinging to their bare skin and air the sheets half-hanging onto the floor. Turkey, despite all his cursing, has no great lasting damage to the only bit of him Portugal really cares for – Portugal would (probably) care for more of the other man, really, if only Turkey’s (more than decent, Portugal will grudgingly admit, spread his hands flat on Turkey’s still-impressive tan chest and ride the other’s cock until Turkey’s nails have left harsh red gouges in his hips, definitely more than decent) body didn’t come with such a loose _mouth_ attached to it.

When Turkey opens his mouth, more often than not, _stupid_ comes out in every colour of the historical rainbow, and the stupid is sometimes bad enough to kill all arousal, entirely. More than one orgasm has crashed unpleasantly in the past after one of Turkey’s ill-timed comments, and more than one rug has had to deal with blood after Turkey’s nose crashed into it as a result. Portugal despairs of his occasional bedmate sometimes, he truly does, but _sometimes_ Turkey seems the only, easiest, angry answer to an itch he can’t scratch alone, a cry for buttons torn, bruises and bitemarks and a deep, satisfying fuck with their responsibilities tossed to the side. For Turkey’s teeth tugging at his earrings, digging into his nape, and his hair snarled in Turkey’s fist. The verbal filth from the _mouro_ ’s mouth has nothing on the wet fucking filth of his kisses, the hard bruising snap of his hips when Portugal lets his old foe bend him near in two.

…Not that Portugal is always inclined to turning the other down for sex when he is just _that_ bored (anything is better than endless paperwork and politics, the anchor pulling them all down), the bitter-sweetness of thick coffee almost-unpleasantly heavy at the back of his mouth, his own drink, the bitterness from Turkey’s lips, Turkey’s tongue snapped warningly between his teeth after one impudent kiss too many.

They fuck roughly and then they fuck rough and slow – Turkey can be a smooth bastard when he wants, deft in tossing his bed-partner on his side amongst the sheets when he grows tired of Portugal decisively atop him, spreading Portugal’s legs as wide as he likes. His palms curl possessively firm around Portugal’s sweaty thighs as he thrusts in again, sets his own pace with seemingly little care for Portugal’s cock sliding hot and wet-wanting across his stomach, pushed up against his abs by the force of his own deep thrusts and Portugal’s hard _curve_.

Portugal shoves at him, snarling, and Turkey’s laugh rumbles between them – Portugal forces Turkey’s mouth open, presses down flat with two fingers to still the smug smirking curl of the other’s tongue even as one of Turkey’s hands slips, its nails digging into the softer skin behind his knee, his leg yanked up over the other’s hip and a hiss forced out from between his teeth when Turkey’s cock drives deep, strikes something inside of Portugal that makes white _sparkle_ in his head.

Portugal’s fingers tighten when he arches but _slip,_ still slick with saliva, warm-wet around Turkey’s straining throat above him with his nails instinctively biting _in._ He scratches hard down the trachea but Turkey’s lips only slash up into more of a feral grin, _try it_ flashing in his eyes, _try it,_ so Portugal grips harder to try and make the bastard _choke,_ buck against him like a rearing wild horse.

 

 

 

 

It’s evening when Portugal can be bothered to stir himself again, facedown in cool sheets with the crickets beginning to sing through the window. He has red lines up his legs and sides and his curling hair seems full of knots, snagging his fingers when he runs a tired hand through it, propping himself up onto one elbow in Turkey’s bed.

The bedroom is empty apart from him. Just as he sleepily decides it’s far better that way and he might as well go back to sleep, Turkey swans back in through the door with more coffee in his hands, naked save for loose pants and a darkening bruise Portugal is suddenly rather proud of around his neck.

Portugal takes one long look at him, this walking history of annoyance in a man, and then flops back down into his pillow. Suddenly, he can feel every one of his aches again. “Ay, if you’re trying to _poison_ me, estúpido, you could be a great deal more subtle about it.”

“You can wear it if you don’t want to drink it,” Turkey says, sits on the bed, too warm, too close, too heavy,  and makes a noticeable _dip_ that digs a disgruntled Portugal out of the doze he’d been aiming for.

Portugal sticks out his hand, grouchy, and gets a cup placed in it that he can pull back to himself again. Even after a rather satisfying round of sex and ‘happy endorphins,’ it _still_ looks like tar. He pulls a face, but drinks it.

They don’t get their paperwork done.

**Author's Note:**

> Kombolói: worry-beads, used in Greek/Cypriot culture. They’re used as a way to pass the time and keep hands occupied, but don’t have any religious significance like the rosary does. They can sometimes been seen as charms against bad luck, and as a way to help people trying to quit smoking.  
> ‘The politically-correct name for regional caffeine’: Turkish coffee is referred to as Greek coffee and Cypriot coffee in Greece and Cyprus respectively, the name changed for political reasons after the Turkish invasion of Cyprus and the strained politics in the region in the 1960s. Regardless of what it’s called, the stuff’s damn lethal.


End file.
